The Silver Rose (30 page)

Sometimes Meg worried that it wasn’t the book that was bad, but Cassandra. But that was far too dreadful a thought for a girl to entertain about her mother. Meg quashed it as she finished putting on her shoes.

Finette loomed over her, tapping her foot. “So what spell are you going to try to translate today?”

“I don’t know. Whatever Maman—I mean, the Lady, tells me,” Meg replied sullenly.

“Just remember I was the one who acquired the
Book,
stealing it out from under the noses of both that witch-hunter and the Dark Queen,” Finette bragged. “And at no little risk to myself. I—”

“Yes, yes,” Meg interrupted with a long-suffering sigh. She had heard the story of how Finette had tricked the Dark Queen’s spy and snatched the book at least a million times. So had everyone else.

She gasped when Finette’s hand clamped down hard, pinching her arm.

“You just remember what’s due to me, that’s all. I have been waiting far longer than all of those other wenches to be rewarded for my services. I want you to find me a potion that will make me lovely and desirable.”

Meg pulled a face. There was not a spell in the world powerful enough to do that. She was tempted to suggest there was one magic Finette might try. It was called hot water and perfumed soap. But Meg was wise enough to keep the thought to herself. Yanking away from Finette, she marched out of the bedchamber, making a dignified exit with her small chin thrust into the air.

T
HE CHAMBER OCCUPIED BY
Cassandra Lascelles was situated at the highest point of the house. Those summoned to attend upon the Lady often approached the chamber with dread, including her own daughter. Even during the brightest part of the day, the north tower seemed gloomy and sinister, a place of shadows and secrets.

Her palms slick with sweat, Meg hovered at the top of the winding stair. She wondered how angry Maman would be because of her tardiness. She prayed that her mother had not been drinking. Cassandra’s temper was much worse when the demons crept out of the whiskey bottle and invaded her heart.

Meg clutched her medallion and gulped, the amulet feeling like a noose, just waiting to tighten. But she was only making matters worse by delaying. Dusk had crept over the landing, rendering it pitch-black, but she could see light emanating beneath the crack of her mother’s door.

Meg drew in a deep breath and knocked. “M-maman . . . I mean, milady?”

There was no response. Perhaps she had been so timid, her mother had not heard her, although that seemed unlikely. Even though Maman could not see, her other senses were extremely sharp, especially her hearing.

Meg risked another knock, a little louder. When the silence stretched out, her pulse skipped a beat. Sometimes when Maman drank too much whiskey, she made herself so sick she fell down or slipped into an alarming deep sleep from which Meg could not rouse her.

Fear for her mother superceding her other apprehensions, Meg turned the knob and cracked open the door enough to peek inside. The furnishings of the tower room were sparse, a narrow bed, a chair, a table, the cupboard where Maman kept her dried herbs necessary to brew potions, and the small locked chest that contained the dreaded
Book.
None of Maman’s things must ever be touched or moved lest she trip or be unable to find what she wanted. Meg had learned long ago that that was the way to make Cassandra really angry.

“Milady?” She dared to open the door a little farther until she spied her mother near the chamber’s empty hearth. Meg froze, choking back a dismayed cry at the sight that met her eyes, far worse than Cassandra Lascelles plying her bottle or tapping her walking staff in a temper.

Maman was at her conjuring again . . .

Cassandra bent over a copper bowl positioned in the center of the table, muttering some incantation under her breath. A brace of black candles burned with a white-hot flame, casting an eerie halo over the Lady’s gaunt features. She shook back her thick mane of silver-streaked dark hair as she waved her hand over the basin.

Her mother was a formidable woman, but she waxed even more alarming as she swayed, sinking deeper into her trance. She seemed to grow taller, stronger, her shadow stretching up the wall. Her eyes, usually so dark, still burned with an inner fire as she focused on the cauldron. Maman was only blind in the land of the living. When she parted the veil into the netherworld beyond, Cassandra could
see.

Meg shrank back, trembling. How often had Nourice warned Meg against necromancy, the forbidden practice of summoning the dead.

“It is magic of the blackest kind, my pet. Not only is it wrong to disturb the peace of departed souls, no matter how much we love and miss them, necromancy can be very dangerous. Any time one disturbs the realms of the dead, one risks setting loose evil and vengeful spirits seeking a portal back into our world.”

As her mother muttered over the copper vessel, Meg wanted to rush into the chamber and stop her. Clutch at her skirts and beg, “Ah, don’t, Maman. Please don’t.”

Not only would Maman never heed her pleas, she might force Meg to participate. Maman had tried on several occasions before to teach her the conjuring, all to no avail.

“You clearly have no gift for necromancy,” her mother had complained when Meg had failed. “You are too stupid to be taught.”

Meg knew she wasn’t. She had simply not wanted to learn the dark art.

As a terrible mist began to rise out of the bowl, Meg crouched down, wanting to look away, to close the door. But she continued to watch with a kind of horrified fascination as her mother intoned in a louder voice.

“Nostradamus! Hear me, master. I summon your spirit from the realms of the dead. Come to me. I would speak with you about the future.”

The water in the bowl threatened to boil over, emitting a furious hiss of steam. A deep voice rumbled from the depths of the vessel, sending a cold chill through Meg.

“What now, witch? Why do you again disturb my peace with your endless demands about the time to come? I have answered your questions over and over again. What more can I tell you?”

Meg shivered. She had been told that Michel de Nostradamus had been a learned doctor and seer when he had still walked the earth, advising and helping many people. His spirit was usually furious whenever Maman summoned him, although this time the ghost sounded more wearied than enraged.

It was Maman who was angry as she railed, “What can you tell me? How about the truth for once instead of all your endless falsehoods and evasions?”

“What falsehoods? When have I ever lied to you?”

“You told me that one day there would be a revolution in France, that kings would be swept from the throne. You predicted there would come a time when women would no longer be subservient to men
and
you foretold that Megaera is destined for greatness.”

Meg flinched at the mention of her name. It was frightening to hear yourself discussed with a ghost even when Nostradamus agreed with her mother.

“The child you call Megaera is fated to become a powerful woman. All these things I have foretold will come to pass.”

“When? I see little sign of any of it coming true, although I have done my best to make it happen. I am hardly any nearer to placing my daughter on the French throne than I was years ago. You—you have deceived me.”

“You deceived yourself, witch,”
the sepulchral voice replied.
“I never said anything about Megaera ruling France. It is you who have taken all these separate events I spoke of and woven them into a cloth of your own mad design.”

“Because you tricked me. You led me to believe!” Cassandra clenched her fists, grinding her teeth. “I want no more of your evasions and vague prophecies. Tell me once and for all. What did you mean when you said my daughter will possess great power? Will she become queen or will she not?”

“Megaera’s fate rests with . . .”

The voice faded to a whisper. Meg’s heart thumped anxiously. Who? Who did her fate rest with? She pressed her face to the crack in the door, straining to hear.

Maman leaned closer over the bowl. “No! Master. Don’t you dare fade away until you assure me—”

She stared into the cloudy water with a heavy scowl. “Who—who is that lurking there? Who comes? I summoned Master Nostradamus, not you. Go back. Back, I say and—”

Cassandra broke off, recoiling from the bowl with an alarmed cry. “Mother, is that you? No, no!” She waved her hands frantically as though fending off a blow.

“Serpent’s tooth. Treacherous witch.”
A woman’s angry voice rang out, so shrill it pierced through Meg, made her want to clap her hands over her ears.

“You betrayed me and your sisters—”

“No. No, I didn’t,” Cassandra shrieked, stumbling back from the table. “Leave me alone.”

The mist whirled, assuming a darker, more menacing cast. To Meg’s horror, she thought she saw a skeletal hand rise up out of the haze, clawing at her mother. As Cassandra screamed, Meg covered her eyes, too terrified to look.

She heard a thud and then a loud clatter and realized Cassandra must have lashed out, knocking the bowl from the table. A dread silence descended, the only sound Cassandra’s ragged breathing. Or was it her own?

When Meg finally dared peek, nothing remained of the mist except a lingering wisp of smoke. The bowl was overturned, water spattered over the floor. Her mother hunkered down by the table, her eyes dimmed as tears cascaded down her cheeks.

Meg bit down on her lip, her chest feeling squeezed tight. She had only ever seen her formidable mother cry once before, the night Cerberus had vanished. Her mother had sat twisting the dog’s lead in her hands, weeping as though her heart would break. Meg had rushed to fling her arms about Cassandra, trying to apologize through her own sobs, to say how sorry she was for making Maman obliged to get rid of the dog. She had only wanted to comfort her mother, but Cassandra had shoved her savagely away with a hate-filled scowl.

Which is what her mother would do if Meg dared approach her now. Cassandra regarded tears as a weakness, and Meg sensed that she did not like appearing weak in front of anyone, especially Meg. Any attempt to console Maman would only make her despise Meg more than she already did.

Meg lingered in the doorway, distressed by her mother’s tears, not knowing what to do. As she shifted from foot to foot, she lost her balance and stumbled against the door, causing it to creak.

Cassandra froze, her head snapping up immediately. She dashed the tears from her cheeks, demanding, “Who is that? Who is there?”

Meg swallowed, her tongue cleaving to the roof of her mouth. It was pure folly not to answer. Her mother would know she was there. She always did because of the matching medallions they wore, the amulets forging a dark and inescapable bond between them, allowing Cassandra to sense Meg’s whereabouts until recently . . .

These past few months, Meg had learned how to render herself invisible. All she had to do was imagine there was a magic trunk deep inside her heart, then picture herself climbing into it, pulling down the lid, and hiding. Maman could not find her there, not even with her dark inner eye.

But this time Meg was not quick enough to react. Cassandra clutched her medallion, the tentacles of her mind reaching out, and Meg betrayed herself with the quickening of her breath, the speeding up of her heart. Panicked, she searched for her magic trunk. But it was too late. Her mother snapped, “Megaera! I know you are out there. What have I told you before about lurking and spying? Get in here.”

Quivering, Meg pushed against the door until it opened enough to let her slip into the room. Clutching the table leg, Cassandra dragged herself to her feet. She pointed imperiously to the space directly in front of her.

“Come here. Right now.”

Meg slunk forward, nearly slipping in the puddle of water by the overturned bowl. The copper vessel scraped against the floor as she bent to retrieve it.

“What’s that sound? What are you doing?” her mother snarled.

“I—I’m just picking up your bowl, tidying up . . .”

“Am I raising you to be a queen or a scullery maid? Leave that to Finette.”

“Yes, madame.” Meg meekly placed the bowl on the table. She crept closer until she was within range of her mother’s hands. Her mother gripped her shoulders, placing Meg directly in front of her. She could feel the chill of her mother’s fingers through the fabric of her gown.

“What have you been doing all afternoon?” Cassandra asked. Before Meg could frame an answer, her mother rapped out, “Have you been spending more time with that Moreau girl?”

“N-no.”

“Finette tells me that ever since that girl was permitted to join our coven, you have showed a special interest in her.”

Meg swallowed. She liked Carole. The older girl was the closest thing to a friend she had found since her arrival in Paris. But Maman would not like to hear that.

“Mademoiselle Moreau is—is a little shy,” Meg said. “I have just been trying to make her feel welcome.”

“
Welcome?
The girl is not a guest in this house. She is here to serve our cause, to further the glory of the Silver Rose and the new age of power for wise women. Your interests, Megaera.”